How Connor and Murphy meet Rocco
by graceandfire
Summary: Sort of a sequel to 'How Connor and Murphy MacManus come to America' although they're both standalones. Short story on how the brothers first meet Rocco. Rated T for language because, uhm, Rocco? Yeah.


A/N - This is sort of a sequel to "How Connor and Murphy Come to America" although they're both stand-a-lones. Hope you enjoy! Oh, and one note: I have no idea what town in Ireland the MacManus brothers are from (I don't remember it ever being mentioned in the movie) so I randomly picked Wicklow. If you happen to know the right town please do let me know and I'll update to fix it. Thanks!

How Connor and Murphy meet Rocco

It feels good to Murphy to be sitting here working the kinks out of his shoulders and letting the hum of conversation flow over and around him, the rowdy atmosphere a balm of comfort after a long, labor filled week. It feels good and right to be in a bar in America with Connor at his side. They arrived at McGinty's at half past six on this Friday eve, ready to enjoy a few pints and some conversation with the lads. And whilst it's been but a week since the twins arrived in Boston from the old country, Connor and Murphy have ready smiles, big hearts and clever wits and so have already been accepted by the bar's rough regulars, sliding into the microcosm that is McGinty's as if they've always been.

A long and tiring week it's been between finding a temporary place to stay and earning a few American dollars through the hard labor of their bodies. So Connor and Murphy are both more than ready to toss back a few whilst they sit at the bar, enjoying the beer and the company. The pattern of cussing and laughter and ribald remarks flow with good natured chaos and Connor's right in the thick of it--as he most always is--adding more than his share of jokes, brags and put downs (always good-natured as Connor doesn't have a true particle of meanness in him; there's no room, what with all the mischief). Murphy sits back and takes it all in with silent amusement, adding the occasional wry comment or two as the desire strikes him.

Connor's been working two shifts as a dishwasher in some fancy restaurant uptown while Murphy's found work part-time unloading freight on the docks. It's hard labor but they're both used to it. They do want to find something together though, since working apart from each other day after day doesn't suit. It's like working without a hand or a foot; Murphy keeps looking up from his labor to toss a comment to Connor and keeps frowning when he realizes his brother's across town. But the important thing is to save up a bit of funds and find a place of their own. They're bedded down at the YMCA for now but Laslow, one of the bar regulars, thinks he can get them a line on a place a few blocks away. Nothin' fancy mind you, but he knows a guy who knows a guy…

The hours pass swiftly and it's well past the witching hour when the two brothers head out, staggering a little under the weight of the alcohol they've consumed. They're in a good mood, buzzed but not truly pissed (it takes a hell of a lot of alcohol to put down two boys from Wicklow). They've a line on a place, some money in their pockets and even a few extra dollars to send back to ma; life is fuckin' brilliant.

On the way back to the Y, they pass a parked car and pause to watch with interest the altercation taking place within. It's a bloke, dark hair long and shaggy, sitting in the passenger seat with a female, pretty little thing if you discount the vicious expression on her face, at the wheel. The pretty little thing is yelling her head off at the bloke, a steady stream of vitriol coming out of her mouth 'you fuckin' worthless bastard I fuckin' hate you! I should have listened to my mother! I hope your faithless dick falls off!' and such.

"She seems angry," Murphy whispers to Connor who's smiling as he stands and sways a bit, clearly feeling right with the world.

"You've a keen power of observation Murph," Connor whispers back as he grins merrily.

They continue to watch, mildly entertained as the shaggy haired bloke stumbles out of the car, cussing back at her, helped along by several whacks of the bright pink purse the female keeps slapping at him with. The bloke finally exits the auto with a stumble before righting himself indignantly. He starts to lean into the open window, snarling, but is forced to jump back with a startled yelp as the car peels away from the curb with a screech of tires and the scent of burning rubber.

"Fuck you, you stupid bitch!" the bloke screams after her, shaking his fist and kicking air, before running a hand through his long, greasy hair and looking around in disgust. His eyes light on the boys and he immediately scowls in embarrassment. "What the fuck're you dumb fucks lookin' at?"

Murphy smiles back at him, friendly. Maybe it's the alcohol talking but even with the threatening expression the boyo reminds him of an overgrown shaggy pup. Kind of adorable actually. As such, 'tis quite difficult to take the man seriously. Connor, meanwhile, is shaking his head in sympathy. "Looks like you could use a drink brother; with a woman like that."

"What the fuck do you mean, with a woman like that?" the shaggy fellow snarls and takes a threatening step forward. Murphy tries once more to conjure up even a little resolve to take the fellow more seriously but, hellfire, he just can't and he snickers instead. Connor seems to be having the same bloody problem because he doesn't even tense at the threatening stance of the man as he approaches. Of course, it is hard to be tense when you're buzzed on good beer; or even shite beer.

"Well," Connor makes a vague gesture after the departed vehicle. "It's just, she's a feisty one, she is."

"Fuck yeah, she's a feisty one. A feisty _whore/cunt/bitch_!" the fellow turns and shakes his fist angrily in the same direction, kicking out at empty air again and almost falling over for his trouble.

Connor and Murphy exchange amused glances. "I think y'could use a drink mate." Connor offers, pointing vaguely back at the direction of McGinty's.

"Fuck yeah I could use a fuckin' drink," the fellow agrees, still surly. "Who the fuck're you anyways?"

"'m Connor and this is m'brother Murphy," Connor offers, tossing an arm around Murph for stability which Murphy's thinking might be a tactical error on Con's part as Murphy's not feeling so stable himself.

"You guys Irish or something?" the guy asks suspiciously, obviously keen brain having worked its way through an analysis of their accents.

Connor nods soberly. "We are. And clever it is of you to notice."

The guy blinks his puppy dog eyes like he's trying to decide whether he's being insulted. After another moment of processing he shrugs. "I'm Rocco. And you're fuckin' right. I do need a fuckin' drink." Rocco's expression has shifted from threatening to morose.

Connor turns to Murphy. Murphy turns to Connor. They share a blink and a shrug and then swing around and start heading back towards McGinty's. "We happen to know a place," Murphy tosses over his shoulder as they stagger their way back to the bar. It's for a good cause after all. Man clearly needs a drink.

They reach the bar and talk the old man into serving them a few more pints and spend the next hour consoling Rocco about the 'friggin' bitch whore' whose Christian name they never do actually learn. A few drinks in and the topic shifts to life in general and Rocco tells them about the local mob, how he's in tight with them and going to be a 'made man' some day. Murphy and Connor exchange skeptical glances over this piece of information but shrug and talk about their plans for America and what their beloved Ireland's like and their faith in the Lord. At some point Rocco looks bleary eyed at the brothers and asks "so which of youse is older?"

"_I am_," the twins respond immediately in unison and then shoot narrow eyed glares at each other. Rocco just blinks sleepily (he's had a shitload of beer after all) and then nods, "okay."

They find they all like baseball. Rocco shows a sad lack of knowledge of football (the _real _football) but Murphy and Connor graciously forgive him his ignorance. And some time in between the beers and the random talk a tentative bond forms between the brothers and this foul-mouthed Italian whose smile lights up the room. Eventually McGinty kicks them out, complaining in his rusty broken voice about how "he's got to get his fucking beauty sleep don't he?" and the MacManus brothers exit the bar once more, staggering a hell of a lot more than they did the first time out and accompanied by their new mate.

They pause outside the bar letting the bitter cold of the Boston night sober them up a bit. They stand in silence for a brief moment and then Rocco smiles at them tentatively.

"So you guys wanna meet up tomorrow?" Rocco asks, eyes a little wistful. He likes these fuckers. They're funny and they're nice to him and the mob guys are all fuckin' that and shit but they're also pretty fuckin' mean when you get right down to it. Plus Rocco sometimes gets the feeling they don't respect him too much and he's not sure how to change that. These guys though, Connor and Murphy fucking MacManus, they're all right dudes and they're really smart and shit but they don't talk down to him and they laughed at his jokes.

Connor and Murphy exchange one of those swift, lightning fast silent glances Rocco's been seeing all night. Fuckin' twins. Yeah, he can see that about 'em. He almost feels like he's holding his breath. And then he realizes he actually is holding his breath and then he breathes 'cause he don't feel so good and if he doesn't he might have to puke while he waits for their answer.

And then both brothers smile, bright and pure, and Rocco feels something relax in his gut.

"Sounds good to us brother," Connor says reaching out to offer a friendly cuff against Rocco's head.

"Hey don't fuckin' do that," Rocco frowns, feeling the nausea come back. "I'm gonna puke."

But he doesn't and he walks away looking forward to tomorrow. Fuckin' Irish twins. Who the fuck knew?

And that's how Connor and Murphy meet Rocco.


End file.
